Chapter two: I Hit My Head and Cried
I Hit My Head and Cried
My bones felt tense when I sat at my desk in our guest room. I wasn’t sure why. Nothing specific happened, yet so many things had happened. But I wasn’t dwelling on them. It was called life. Wasn’t it? It’s not like I could put a finger on it but I had grown tense and out of sorts. Was it something that happened yesterday or was it because my second husband and I sold our photo business years earlier when film changed to digital? Maybe I didn’t like being a statistic from a failed marriage. Perhaps it was because my father had been an alcoholic and no matter what I did or didn’t do as a child I couldn’t lock into the good girl formula. Neither parent had seemed satisfied. One was drunk and bitter while the other remained silent. Or maybe I was having an off day because when I was sixteen, tests confirmed I carried Dad’s genetic disease of hemophilia. A disorder that would give my future daughter a fifty-fifty chance of carrying on the family strain, or worse my future son might be like my dad. Wow! The voice of my fear declared that should I get pregnant, the baby I carried would grow into an angry, bitter, and abusive man. On the other hand it’s possible the tension was clinging to our infertility. Or was it just because of the crib?
Attempting to organize my desk, I dropped a piece of cardboard on the floor. When I crawled under the desk to grab it I whacked my head on the keyboard tray. It hurt. I cried. I leaned on my elbows under the desk and watched tears drip onto the plastic chair mat. I noticed they weren’t clear like the mat.
I didn’t cry because my head hurt, I cried because my hurt hurt. I’ve become sensitive to random thoughts. Not sure why, but I have my theory. God. I don’t mean God is doing it to me; whatever it is. But because I try hard to do life God’s way with a greater awareness of Him, it seems an unidentified force has intercepted my efforts and pecks at me. Peck, peck, peck. Not one big thing. Not one little thing, rather many gradual peck, peck, pecks that goad me to find my last straw and throw in the towel.
Another drop fell, this time on the piece of cardboard that started this whole mess. I watched my tear turn dark brown as the thickness absorbed my cry, spreading random inkblot patterns. I sobbed. I felt silly. I wanted to shout. I thought, maybe this is like the stories I’ve heard. When one is hurt and driven to their knees, God comes, maybe even sends an Angel. But then the voice in my head said, “You foolish girl, how contrived if you can already picture the scene of your hope.” So rather, than shout out loud for my God to help, I whispered as I tried to ignore the mocking voice in my head. Yet my heart still silently hoped for an angel to appear and set me straight, but one never came.
My body released its history of hurts into a salty discolored puddle under the desk. I cried out I know God will be there, I know He has a plan, I know He won’t hang me out to dry. I know, I know, I know, but if I know, why do I hurt?